“We will hope for the best,” I answered, laughing; “but I will take my gun, in case of accidents.”
Chapter Five.
An intruder—We arrive at Kepenau’s camp—Ashatea inquires kindly after Lily and Dora—Deer-hunting—The strange Indians—Kepenau’s precautions—Mike amuses the camp with his fiddle—Our farewell—Kakaik’s advice with regard to rapid-shooting—The treacherous Indian on shore—Mike and I paddle desperately—The canoe is upset—Carried down the stream—A natural place of concealment in a hollow trunk—My terror on perceiving the Indians—Forced by hunger to leave my concealment, I am taken prisoner by four Indians.
On arriving at the foot of the falls we found our goods safe; but just as we were about to shoulder them we heard a rustling among the bushes. Advancing cautiously towards the spot, not knowing what might be there, I caught sight of a dark hairy form. It was a brown bear, which in another minute would in all likelihood have been examining our property with no delicate fingers. I hesitated to fire, for I was sure that I should be unable to hit any vital part; and as even a brown bear, if wounded, will turn furiously on his pursuers, before I could have reloaded the beast might have been upon me. In another instant Bruin had plunged in among the thick underwood, and was concealed from view; but I heard him making his way rapidly from us, doubtless considering that discretion was the better part of valour.
Having taken up our goods, and looked carefully round to see that nothing was left behind, we set off towards the canoes. Kakaik by this time had them both secured alongside the bank, so that we quickly reloaded them and recommenced our voyage up the stream.
I asked Mike to sing one of his Irish songs: this he was never loath to do, and he soon made the banks echo with his melody. As soon as he had ceased, the Indian took up the strain with one of his native songs. It was melancholy in the extreme, and contrasted greatly with Mike’s joyous notes.
“Faix! if it’s tears he wants to draw from our eyes, I can bate him there,” observed Mike, when Kakaik had ceased; and he began one of those sad ditties descriptive of the death of some Irish heroine. Though the Indian could not understand the meaning, he appeared to be much affected, and it was some time before he began another song. From the few words we could make out, we supposed him to be recounting the misfortunes of his people, and their departure from the hunting-grounds of their fathers.
Mike had brought his fiddle, but of course he could not play it while paddling.